


A Week. Maybe Two

by hannahrhen



Series: The Marriage of True Minds [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: And No That's Not a Contradiction in Terms, Arranged Marriage, Deus Ex Machina, Honeymoon, Jotunn!Loki, M/M, More Drive-By Clinting, Tons Upon Tons of Hot Marital Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first fifteen days of the arranged marriage of Tony Stark and Loki, God of Mischief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Week. Maybe Two

**Author's Note:**

> So. Fair warning: The tone of this part is decidedly different from the last, with more Serious!Tony and less crammed-with-constant-attempts-at-teh-funnies. Still, I'm pretty happy with it. And, to throw readers a bone (heh)--yeah, lots of sex.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who prodded for a sequel. This? Is why I never say never when it comes to writing!

The “a week, maybe two” passed as they do, and Tony wasn’t entirely sure if Loki had been feeling literal about the whole deal, or if the time period roughly translated into “until I’m bored.” 

(As things were playing out, it was more likely to be “until I’ve wrung every ounce of pleasure from your husk of a figure and need something undessicated to stick my cock into.” The first part? Definitely a risk.)

He figured he’d know for certain when he woke up on the fifteenth morning, if the space to his left were abandoned as if it had never been taken up to begin with. 

He wasn’t sure, honestly, which he wanted. Still, he was Tony Stark, and he knew how to enjoy the moments.

***

What he could remember of them, anyway: days one and two were a blur of writhing, clawing races to come first, most, and repeatedly, constantly ... over each other, and under, on every surface available. 

When they’d gotten their fill of that competition, they competed to see who could come _last_ , holding out against increasingly familiar, increasingly effective strokes, teases, and dirty, dirty goads. Unsurprisingly, Loki won that competition frequently; all it took, with that silver tongue, was a few smooth words in that refined voice, mated with an insistent finger behind Tony’s balls, for Tony to forfeit. 

They barely spoke. Tony was relieved that Loki seemed easy enough to keep occupied, and Loki _was_ occupied, leaving marks all over Tony’s skin, keeping him in repeat cycles of arousal and satiety. Tony ached all over, but, in the spirit of the old song, it hurt so good. 

He got used to fucking--to being fucked--with JARVIS occasionally interrupting them to insist that “Sir must eat now” and, when the AI was ignored too long, dropping the temperature in the room and putting the air vents on full, so Tony felt like he was screwing through the beginning of John Carpenter’s The Thing, which was not as erotic as his seventeen-year-old self might have considered. 

Loki, of course, wasn’t bothered by the chill. But it served to keep Tony hydrated and fed well enough, while Loki supervised, asking questions about and trying unfamiliar foods from Tony’s plate. 

*** 

On the morning of day three, Tony’d taken a call from Clint. He scrabbled for the phone on the kitchen countertop--groaned when he saw the ID. 

“Just give the word, Stark: Nat and I will extract you.” 

Tony, in boxers only, with his elbows bracketing a glass of JARVIS-enforced orange juice, just put his face in his free hand. He’d been waiting for this call and had suspected Coulson had been fending Clint--and everyone else--off. And that Fury had been allowing it due to the whole Marcus thing ... which Tony couldn’t find it in his heart, or any other parts, to harbor too much resentment over. 

(He was actually impressed that the first call had taken almost forty-eight hours after Bruce had left, with great haste, after discovering Tony plowing Loki into the arm of the sofa. Tony, pants hastily buttoned, had caught up to Bruce as he threw toiletries into a bag, pleading to be left to his taxi and hotel room until he could make his own way back to New York. 

“Mazel tov,” he said with a grim smile, as he slammed the front door after himself.) 

Anyway. Here they were, two days later--his first SHIELD call. Asking about a rescue that they clearly understood he didn’t need. Still, you followed social protocols, right? So, “Not necessary, Hawk,” he replied, slightly muffled with his fingers now over his mouth. He scratched at his stubble. “No injuries yet.” A pause, followed by the obligatory taunt: “Well, none that I didn’t ask for.” 

His mouth twisted up at the exaggerated groan over the line. “Oh, God--Stark, come on.” Tony turned and looked back over his shoulder at the balcony, Loki’s favorite place in midmorning. The god was ... well. He was naked, staring out over the horizon, giving a show to anyone in the homes nearby with binoculars pointed in the right direction. Tony could only see him from behind--heh--but what a sight it was: The fall of sleek black hair reaching to the knob at the top of his long spine. The three points of his shoulders and narrowing waist--a perfect inverted triangle of cream flesh, immune to sunburn, apparently. His gorgeous--and, as Tony’d discovered, deliciously swattable--ass leading down to lean-muscled thighs and ... 

Someone was talking in his ear about “safeword” and “JARVIS” and “entire company of stealth-trained operatives,” but Tony wasn’t listening. 

Loki always knew when he was being watched, and Tony saw him turn--that still unfamiliar _natural_ smile at discovering himself being openly appreciated. And Tony always knew, to the microsecond, when his appraisal of Loki shifted from aesthetic pleasure to baser interests. 

_Yeah._ There it was. 

His mouth went dry. 

“Stark!” 

“Huh?” Oh, fucking _Clint_. Tony returned Loki’s smile as the god moved back toward the open doors, toward Tony. 

Making up his mind, he enunciated clearly into the phone: “Hey, Hawk--there _is_ something you can do for me.” 

“Anything, man--just give the word.” 

Tony kept his tone utterly earnest. “I might need you to come, you know, flip me over.” 

Loki was inside the house, now, and tilted his head at Tony’s words, confusion and good humor mingling warmly on his face. Meanwhile, Tony heard an interrogative noise over the phone. 

“Well, here’s the thing. Loki got me on my back, and ... Clint--it’s just like you warned me--I can’t get off of it!” 

Loki smirked, understanding, and Tony gave him an exaggerated shrug that perfectly declared he didn’t give a shit. 

“What the--oh, fuck you, Tony.” 

“No, seriously, Clint.” Here he reached out for Loki and the god closed in, pressed up to him where he sat on the barstool. “I’m like a fucking turtle--just keep rolling from side to side, legs wiggling around in the air--” Tony twisted in the barstool, catching Loki between his thighs as the god snorted. 

“Okay--fuck it. Fuck _you_.” Clint was really pissed, Tony could tell, but there was an undercurrent of something else--a hint of relief and the tolerant camaraderie that the team had formed over the year. “See if I ever offer to help you again, Stark.” 

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that.” He tugged Loki closer in by his waist--leaned up and nuzzled his neck, felt strong fingers curl into his back. “If I can’t count on you to rescue me when I’m being fucked into the mattress by my god-like husband, who _can_ I count on?” 

After he disconnected the call on an annoyed grunt, Tony proceeded to let his god-like husband prove Clint’s worst fears correct. 

At least for a couple of hours. 

*** 

Loki switched from the right side of the bed to the left, shoving Tony over with a haughty, “I prefer to sleep here, Stark.” 

Tony pretended he didn’t know why, but went to sleep with a small smile on his face. 

That was the fourth day. 

*** 

On day five, Tony asked the question. Being Tony, he worked up to it awkwardly. Being day five, they were, again, in bed. 

He rolled over onto his stomach ( _heh_ , Clint), and began: 

“So, okay, the barbed-cock thing, obviously not true.” 

He got a puzzled look, fine black eyebrows arched. Eventually, after Tony’s blood pressure spiked, Loki smirked a bit and shook his head. 

“And you haven’t frozen me solid.” He paused. “Yet.” 

“No,” Loki answered drily. “Not yet.” 

“Which leads me to wonder: Will you, uh--” Tony waved a hand, indicating Loki’s body. “What I mean is, can I see--” 

The answer was quick. “No.” And firm. 

“But--” 

“No. I will not show you my Jotunn form. That is not ... part of our agreement.” The tone was harsh, but it said something about how fucked-out Loki was that his rebuttal wasn’t in the form of a magical silver blade to the stomach. 

Tony jerked his head around as if looking for witnesses. “Our ... Huh. I don’t remember our agreement having anything to do with your--what did you say it was?” 

“Jotunn. My Jotunn form.” 

“Oh. That wasn’t what Thor called it.” 

“No. He wouldn’t.” Yeah, there was that inching-closer-to-the-blade response. “And, as for our agreement, it did not mention revealing our true forms, so that is not a required part of this union.” 

Tony knew the topic needed to be dropped. For now. “Oh.” He let his face fall with an exaggerated show of capitulation. “I guess I was just ... interested. But okay, then--I’ll just have to leave it to my imagination.” He reached a hand out, began to trace patterns over Loki’s chest. “Luckily, I have a very good imagination, and now I’m picturing you ... Oh, yes. Just like that.” 

They both enjoyed day five. 

*** 

Every day, Tony had to strip the bed and replace the sheets, before the smell of sweat and come began to attract animals. The wild animals of Malibu. Maybe some birds. It was the first time since college that he’d done his own laundry. And that was just the one time, freshman year, when he was washing away evidence. 

Loki didn’t help. Tony thought to make him--to insist, or at least ask, that he learn. But they didn’t have that much time, and this was just faster anyway. 

Besides, he got to swat Loki’s ass if the god didn’t move off the bed fast enough, and that usually led to other fun things. 

*** 

On day seven, Thor visited. 

He didn’t call first. If he had, Loki probably would have discouraged him--heartily--from his visit. Instead, Thor landed on the balcony, Mjolnir still sparking, while the newlyweds watched John Carpenter’s The Thing on the big-screen TV in the living room. They were sitting on either end of the sofa, legs stretched up and across the cushions; Tony was stroking the arch of one of Loki’s feet. Loki was pointedly not returning the favor, but instead had Tony’s ankles trapped between his elbow and ribs. 

Loki saw Thor first; Tony only felt something was wrong when the foot in his hands jerked away. 

“Stay here,” Loki said as he unwove himself from their setup, and Tony conceded--but kept a close eye on the other as he stepped outside. Thor faced the doors--faced Tony--and Loki approached the other, resolutely not turning back toward his husband. 

Tony was, of course, intensely curious, but committed to follow at least the letter of the law, if not the spirit. After all, Thor’s booming voice was easy to eavesdrop on--Loki’s less so as the younger brother hissed quietly, head bent toward the elder. 

Thor’s questions--his comments--were just as expected: asking after Loki’s well-being, asking after Tony’s. A chuckle as he ascertained--something--about the last week (a week?! already?) of their honeymoon. Was there anything Loki needed? Anything Thor could do? What were Loki’s plans? 

Loki spoke, in-between these “play to the rafters” interrogations of the thunder god’s, and, no, Tony couldn’t hear, but he could read body language, even with Loki’s back turned toward him. Loki’s bowed head, his lowered shoulders--he was asking something of Thor, or expressing something ... difficult. Thor’s face, too, grew serious, and then ... and, then, softened. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

Thor looked up, then, and met Tony’s eyes through the glass. Raised his other hand in a greeting that Tony returned. 

After Thor had departed and Loki came back inside, began to weave himself back into the sofa, Tony pressed play on the remote. Just before Wilford Brimley started a murder spree, Tony simply asked, without looking over, “Everything okay?” 

“Fine. Just ... “ Tony felt his ankles pulled snugly into Loki’s side again. “ ... fine.” 

Loki had enjoyed The Thing a little _too_ much, in the end, and Tony had tabled the idea of running the Alien films by him next. Besides, they had other things they could do. 

*** 

Tony actually got called away on Avengers business, which sucked. Turned out Thor had had to visit the All-Father, so the team, which had been muddling through without the Iron Man, was in need of more long-range ammo that could fly. 

Loki let Tony go without a word, and Tony shook off the mortifying impulse to kiss Loki before he left. He made up for the discomfort by tying up the comms whining--the entire time--that he was on his honeymoon, and “Could Evil not wait until I’m done getting some?” Even Cap’s orders to “shut it down, Iron Man” were only heeded for a few minutes at a time. 

Tony could sound an awful lot like Eric Cartman when he set his mind to it. 

As they headed into battle, Tony was left wondering what the god was getting up to when he was gone--a first opportunity to stir up trouble since Odin had freed him. But Iron Man’s full attention was needed, so he tabled worrying about it until he got home and surveyed the damage. 

Later, after his return--”Honey! I’m home!,” naturally--he’d asked JARVIS how Loki had occupied himself for the ten hours he’d been gone. 

“He asked me to report on the team’s activities, Sir.” Tony frowned; the god was showering, and Tony had gone to the workshop to find the Loki box, to finally ask about how it worked. To get Loki to show it to him again. 

“Well,” he said, weirdly disappointed. “It figures he’d basically do reconnaissance. Learn what he could about what we do.” He didn’t say “for next time,” but he didn’t have to. 

“No, Sir--my apologies. It was more of ... your well-being he wanted to attend to. He asked me to ascertain if the others were monitoring you, to tell him if you required his presence. In case you were hurt.” 

“Huh. Son of a bitch,” Tony muttered. He set the box down on the coffee table in the living room, and went to join Loki in the shower. Loki examined him for unreported injuries, and Tony showed his own appreciation by sinking to his knees and sucking him off in the billowing steam. 

Later, Loki explained to Tony, using magic theory, how the box worked. Tony could almost understand it, even if he couldn’t replicate the results, and he nearly choked laughing anyway when the tiny Loki reappeared, completely naked and with blue hedgehog spikes on his erect cock. 

That was day eight. 

*** 

Tony awoke on day nine as he had for the past five--to Loki touching his fingers, turning the silver ring around and around as he stroked. Tony was falling into the habit of turning the morning ritual into sex--Tony could turn almost any touches into sex, of course--but he wouldn’t reveal that he found the simple contact as pleasurable as he actually did. 

And that he understood why Loki chose to sleep on that side. 

*** 

Thor returned on day ten and had lunch with them on the balcony. 

He pointedly didn’t comment on the marks on Tony’s neck, or the piles of now-clean but horribly wrinkled sheets on the floor next to the laundry room. Tony pointedly didn’t ask Loki about the heavy, worn rucksack that Thor left behind at his departure. 

The bag was gone--moved? hidden?--when Tony returned from the bathroom. 

*** 

Summoned away for more Avengers business on day eleven. 

Tony kissed Loki goodbye this time. 

*** 

Twelve days into their marriage--actually, the twelfth night (ha--Tony knew it was Shakespeare)--Loki turned blue. He did it, nude and wordless, soundless, standing in the corner of their bedroom where he’d retreated as Tony reached for him. Tony knew his eyes were anime-huge; whatever Thor had told him, whatever creatures he’d seen in Peter Jackson films couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of an actual-- 

Alien. Giant? Whatever he was, it was--truly--magic. The skin, marked with elegant lines. The eyes, red like a banked fire. The horns--oh, Tony loved the horns. And, under it all ... the same Loki. Watching him very, very carefully. 

“Will it hurt me to touch you?” Tony whispered, throat catching. 

Loki’s answer was just as hesitant. “I don’t know.” 

“I’m gonna try, okay?” Tony took a first step, and then a second, slowly. He reached his hand out-- 

Loki cringed away. “Not your fingers. I don’t want your fingertips damaged if--” 

“Okay,” Tony cut in. “Not my fingers. But you need to come here.” He stood still as Loki was compelled to close the last small distance. “Is my arm okay? What about the back of my arm--right here?” He pointed to the widest part of his forearm, where the flesh was at least somewhat padded. 

At Loki’s nod, he raised his arm to Loki’s abdomen, the flat expanse of his stomach, and ... he pressed. They both tensed, and then-- 

Just cool skin, smooth and twitching beneath his own. Tony raised his head, met Loki’s eyes--because they _were_ Loki’s, if color-contrasted--and grinned so hard it physically hurt. He turned his arm, pressed the flat of his palm over the skin he found, sliding it smoothly around Loki’s waist. Tugged the being close. 

“Oh, my god,” he said, pressing his face to Loki’s, breathing in the brisk scent, watching his exhale displace the hair that curled behind his ear. “I am going to love this.” 

Later, when they were on their knees, on the bed, Tony fucking hard into his new, blue husband, he’d had a powerful inspiration. Loki was sweating, moaning, his own fist around his cock as he strained toward orgasm, and Tony ... couldn’t resist. Shifting his weight entirely to his knees, he circled one hand around Loki’s neck, wrapped the other around Loki’s left horn. His ring scraped into bone as he pulled, hard, the force merciless. 

Loki’s spine arched sharply backward, one arm reaching out to reseat himself against the headboard, his scream near-stoppered by the fingers constricting his throat. Tony held Loki’s horn, twisting his lover’s head back as he then scratched his nails from Loki’s neck down his chest--pulled him back even tighter. “Come,” he demanded. 

Loki did, a last moan morphing into a perfect cry of surprised delight. 

Later, he pretended to sulk about it. Grumped that his horns were not a toy for Tony’s baser sexual instincts. 

Tony didn’t buy it for a minute. 

*** 

Tony took Loki to the beach. It was private, enough, but still a high enough risk of discovery, of recognition, that Loki obfuscated his appearance. Tony's supposedly-aborted arranged marriage to the God of Mischief had made the news, but the planned second part--the long slog to Loki's public redemption--was on hiatus as well. So, a disguise: different hair color, different build--in the end, he _looked_ like Thor’s younger brother. 

Tony watched him, emergent from the waves, a (truly) golden god with broad chest and scrubby, glinting hair on his legs and forearms, smile nothing, really, like Loki’s--this form, unlike the Jotunn figure, masked Loki completely. 

Tony couldn’t take it. “We need to go back,” he said. When Loki asked, simply, “Why?,” Tony told him: 

“I need _you_. I need to see _you_.” 

That was day thirteen. They would figure out another way to let Loki into the world ... if there were time, Tony thought. 

*** 

They passed day fourteen the same way they had passed the first: fucking each other on dirty sheets. JARVIS waited until 3 p.m. to turn on the wind tunnel, and, by then, Tony needed Loki to bring food to him, as he could barely move. 

He fell asleep as he had woken up for many days: left hand touched, stroked. The pad of a fingertip feeling the bump of green gems in the surface of the silver metal. 

*** 

On day fifteen, Tony woke up and found himself alone. 

The bed--Loki’s side of it--wasn’t undisturbed, at least. Wasn’t left as if no one had ever occupied it. 

Still, it was quiet, and Tony was never in the mood for quiet. 

He started to ask JARVIS for “the usual soundtrack” (AC/DC, yes, and the Pixies, and Soundgarden, loud enough to damage a lesser man’s hearing). It was time to start planning his return to New York anyway. But as he walked out of the hall into the kitchen, he was surprised, once more, by a something-that-shouldn’t-have-been-there. 

Loki, at the counter, drinking orange juice, picking pieces of fruit and cheese off a dessert plate. His natural grin at Tony dimmed, faded as he took in Tony’s expression. 

The quiet inside had ached. Tony’s orders to JARVIS were unfinished. 

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “You thought--” 

Hands up in the air: “No, I didn’t. Nope.” 

“It’s been--” 

Tony cut that off. “Don’t worry about it.” He stalked to the cupboard next to the fridge, grabbed a water glass, filled it as he spoke. Repeated: “Don’t. Worry. About. It. It doesn’t matter.” 

Loki didn’t insist upon pursuing it, and, after Tony made his way to the next barstool over, they sat in a tense silence. Finally Loki said, “It’s been two weeks.” 

Tony simply exhaled in response. He wouldn’t call it a sigh. 

“I told you we would renegotiate.” Long fingers traced a path through the condensation on the juice glass. 

Tony relented. “I just thought that just meant you’d leave when you got bored.” He looked into Loki’s face, met the green eyes with a small, embarrassed smile. 

Loki pushed away the glass, and then he nudged the small white plate in Tony’s direction. It held slices of yellow-skinned apple, and, in a certain light, the skin-- 

Shone. 

“I’m not bored,” he said. “Let’s ... renegotiate.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So, writers always have "darlings"--for better or worse--and my favorite, tiny thing in the first story was Loki twisting Tony's wedding ring on his finger in the final scene. This story emerged from that. 
> 
> I also desperately wanted Tony to tease Clint about being on his back constantly, like a turtle. So, that would be the second inspiration. Fucking _Clint._
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all! You can find me publicly hand-wringing over my writing, or fangirling over other people's, on Tumblr: <http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com/>


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